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flageolet

36 F Pittsfield, MA

My Details

Last Online
Jul 20
Orientation
Straight
Ethnicity
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Body Type
Diet
Smokes
Drinks
Drugs
Never
Religion
Sign
Education
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Relationship Status
Single
Relationship Type
Offspring
Pets
Speaks
English

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My self-summary
Do you get high from walking in the rain?

In a sentence, that's what I want.

When I wake to the scratch of falling sleet, and the copper oak leaves stand out against the birches, the changing season is magic, and I want someone to share it with.

I want to talk and stretch ideas. Join me in geekery. I'm unabashedly smart and glad to be challenged, glad to admit what I don't know, buoyed by all I do know. Islamic Spain, ghazals, names of mushrooms, mitochondria, the things I want to know expand infinitely.

Teach, listen, build: I want to make and play with these things. I have written a novel and am working on another. Writing makes me feel alive; I write to get close to experiences, to translate emotion, to learn. I write simply because I love the feel of it, for the same reason I keep my hair long.

Music can work the same way. I can play contradance music by ear sometimes. I've camped under white pines with 200 people and played and danced along a lake shore. Because it's dance music shared orally, a lot of it has a simple structure, and I'm a rollicking amateur. But sitting on the grass and feeling the music in the soles of your feet, feeling it lift and swing in response to what you play, is an exultation.

A dairy farm has shaped me, and an octagonal cabin on the coast, and curious, rigorous, generous parents. I can ride a horse and drive a tractor and throw a hay bale. In a flat calm, I can persuade a row boat across a cove. I walk in zig zags and stop to touch and smell and feel and kick up leaves. Do you remember how to jump into a leaf pile? Do you remember the prick of leaves against your skin?

There's so much to taste and feel and smell and say. I'd travel anywhere — I've driven cross country, stood in redwood rings, seen the roller dams raised over the Mississippi. The question shouldn't be where you go, but how you go. And I would go or stay at a quick, active walking pace, quick enough to feel my blood moving and enjoy the motion, slow enough to see where I was. But I love living where I live, in these hills.

Would you come with me to the rocks by the sea at moonrise when the cormorants and eider ducks are feeding, and stand quietly enough to see a harbor seal? Would you walk through city streets and poke into a seller of maps and try bubble tea, and wonder who first settled here, and who built the cisterns on the roofs? Would you try a small restaurant where the owners make their own ricotta cheese — and talk with them? A vacation means rest, and I can rest this way.

You ask who I am. I'm a novelist and a poet. I'm learning to write in third person omnicient because I never do anything the easy way. I'm a journalist in the country. I spend my days learning why artists and singers and welders and mycologists love what they love and trying to build community. I'm a small, stubborn New Englander. I'm happy and close to my family and damn lucky.

What am I looking for? Someone who will talk with me and listen with me. Someone who can relax with me. Someone who'll grab hands with me and spin in circles. Someone who will understand why I would rather read or walk or bake or do something tangible than watch television. (I like movies, especially the kind that show people finding confidence, and I can quote most of Princess Bride back at you. But I already don't have enough time to do all I want to do.)

Someone who agrees that responsibility is a deep pleasure and who will lighten me when I sound too serious and pelt me with snowballs. Someone who will play word games and laugh out loud and beat me at scrabble, and my brother and sister too. An equal.

I want to hold and be held. My family taught me to share space and negotiate and make treasure hunts and sing while I wash the dishes and work out fights and stay present with someone crying and ease someone sick and face the hard talks and throw tennis balls for the dog, and I miss it.

I know how it feels to want a friend fearlessly, wholly. I want that feeling back.
What I’m doing with my life
I edit a weekly arts and community section in the local paper. And I love it. My magazine is growing. I get to talk to people about what they love, and be curious and call it work. I get to be a generalist. A Shakespearean actor on tour with 'Romeo and Juliet' once told me, "I get to fall in love every day." I do too, with stories: why moose live on the ridges, why the newest artist at the museum just north loves the poetry of Agha Shahid Ali, why Edith Wharton read Walt Whitman's poetry with friends on the terrace at night, what it really felt like to work in a textile mill ...

It's a high-speed job, expecially in summer, but my section is my own, and I'll take that trade any time. It also feels like work worth doing. Newspapers bring people together and help to keep creative life going. Who else tells people what their communities are doing, and what their community is, and can be? People do care about community. But it's easier to care when someone helps explain what's there to care about. Because keeping track of 100,000 people in a county takes work.

I'm good at caring about institutions that are changing under pressure. My grandparents have a small farm, and I spent summers working there in high school and college, riding an old quarter horse mare on wood roads and falling off. Now, part of what I'm doing with my life — what I'm really doing — is shopping a novel about an old dairy farm and writing a new book on my own.
I’m really good at
Writing. Falling off horses. Learning contradance music by ear, in coffee shops or at a camp in a white pine wood, from French Canadian fiddlers. Baking bread without looking at the recipe. Climbing on counters to reach the top shelf. Walking into doors when I'm tired. Walking an hour each way to work on long days, when I need to get outside for awhile. Listening. Asking questions (after more than a dozen years of reporting, diving into workshops, working at a writing center and mentoring freelancers.) Getting lost. Getting found again eventually.
The first things people usually notice about me
I'm five feet tall, and I have a lot of hair. I tell myself stories by instinct, get easily distracted by shiny details, and have been known to walk into telephone poles (and apologize to them). I carry often a bag large enough to hold several books and a notebook and pencil.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
A friend recently challenged me to name my top ten favorite books — not the comfort books I reread regularly, but the books I want to write like — the short list that are page-turningly, urgently compelling and also beautifully written.

Dorothy Sayers' 'Gaudy Night' is on it; that book changed me when I was about 14, and it changes me every time I reread it. It's a defense of learning and risk, and of taking time when you care about something. It's also the best evocation of falling in love I know of.

'Pride and Prejudice' taught me that fear and joy can come together. 'The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse' and 'Thursbitch' make grief and desire and religion natural and human.

Michael Chabon's 'Gentlemen of the Road' reminds me of the Princess Bride, if Inigo were a surgeon as well as a fencer, and Fesik carried a battle axe, and Buttercup rode a war elephant....

Tracy Winn's 'Mrs. Somebody Somebody' is delighting me right now with stories set in the late days of the Lowell mills. Hal Borland's weekly reports on the frogs and grass spiders and timberdoodles in his fields do too, and Louise Erdrich, Nalo Hopkinson, Nikki Giovanni's poetry ... I got to hear her speak this summer, and she had the whole room laughing an in tears.

Toni Morrison's "Beloved" is one of the most powerful books I have ever read, for sheer beauty and strength. As one of her main characters says, "It's good to have a woman who's a friend of your mind."

And for comfort I read good mysteries and fantasy, Robin McKinley ("Shadows" has been a highlight of this fall), Ellis Peters, Tony Hillerman, Connie Willis, Susan Cooper ... lots of people.
The six things I could never do without
Taking 'things' literally:

Books
Contact lenses
Writing materials
Bread pans
Recorders (instruments, soprano and tenor at least)
Blankets
I spend a lot of time thinking about
What kind of pie to make to bring to my next roleplaying night, and when strawberries will be ready for picking. How to give friends or family warmth when they need it.

What questions about the characters in my stories I haven't answered (why does the farmer's wife like sitting on the porch in cold weather?)

What my brother, sister, parents, friends are doing, and what I would like to do with them.

What stories I want to tell about the place I live in, for my magazine — because walking around an exhibit of Japanese art in the morning, geese flying on golden screens and pottery glazed like deep water, and then watching a naturalist look up peeper calls with a gray tree frog sitting on his thumb — there's no better way to spend a day.

What those yellow iris are called, and where the nearest spruce forest may be, and what bird is singing that call, and whether that's a black oak or a red oak or a scarlett oak or another kind I haven't met yet.

How rural communities can continue to grow and offer interesting work, now that the mills are dead and the farms are dying.

What coffeeshop to relax at next, and which used bookstore to explore. Which of the seeds a friend saved from her garden I should plant next, and how to keep the rabbits from eating them. Stories. Poetry.
On a typical Friday night I am
Working a night shift at the paper, drinking iced coffee, eating chocolate, and pausing for dinner at an outdoor table, watching seed pods blow off the trees.

Or lounging with a friend, watching 'Slings and Arrows' with leftovers and buttered toast. Or falling asleep over a book, planning to get up not-very-early to get my share of farm vegetables on the way to a music jam. Or setting off to visit a friend at a distance. Or contradancing.
I’m looking for
  • Guys who like girls
  • Ages 30–45
  • Near me
  • Who are single
  • For new friends, long-term dating
You should message me if
You'd like to talk. You're willing to be curious in all directions. You like hiking, maybe looking for moose sign or ravens flying loop-de-loops. You think puttering round used bookstores is a relaxing way to spend a vacation. You think thinking is important. You play with words — you might read through a book on group nouns like 'An Exaltation of Larks' and enjoy the commotion of the wings — or you understand that I do.
You can get high from walking in the rain.